Skalk
by Oneiriad
Summary: Peter Madsen's Valhalla. "You don't think it's hard work, always having to fix everything around here? Keeping the Jotun from walling us all in, getting that stupid hammer from the dwarves, getting rid of that Jotun boy? And do I ever get any thanks? No! Even the humans don't pray to me or sacrifice to me. It's always "Hail Thor!" and "Hail Tyr!" and "Hail fricking Heimdal!"


**Skalk**  
 _oneiriad_

 **A/N:** Peter Madsen's Valhalla does not belong to me. I'm just playing.  
 **A/N 2:** written for drcalvin for Yuletide 2015

* * *

Two weeks after Loke set out to visit Jotunheim, Røskva starts to worry. A week after that, she asks Sif whether the god is usually gone for quite that long.

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about him," Sif says as she stirs the evening stew. "He always needs some time by himself to sulk when one of his tricks backfire. Why, that time when the Jotun tried to wall us all in, we didn't see him again for nearly a year."

"But what if he needs help?"

"Silly girl. This is Loke we're talking about. There never was a bind so tight he couldn't talk himself out of it. Now be a good girl and fetch me the salt."

And that's that.

She considers asking Thor, but it's always been her brother that's been closer to the red-headed Aesir, and besides, Sif is probably right. Loke is the sneakiest person she's ever met and he's got magic, too. For all she knows, he'll be back tomorrow, with some fresh mischief in mind…

In the end, it's well past the summer solstice before Loke returns, with bruises in odd places and scowling at Thor when he looks at them too long, muttering "I don't want to talk about it," before picking up a barrel of mead and slamming the door to his room behind him.

Røskva's not sure what wakes her that night, just that she finds herself awake in the dark and unable to fall asleep again due to Tjalfe snoring next to her. So she slips quietly out of bed and heads downstairs toward the kitchen, thinking a bit of warm milk might help her fall asleep again.

Nor is she sure why she takes the long way round instead of the more direct route by way of the servants' staircase.

"…that's not the point!"

Loke's voice makes Røskva freeze just as she's about to walk past the opening into Sif's weaving room.

"Then what is the point, Loke? If it's not just this silly mess with Brisingamen? Even Freja's not mad about that anymore…" Sif asks, her voice as calm as always.

"The point is that I never get any thanks for all my hard work!"

"Hard work?" Thor's voice rumbles. "You've never done a day of hard work in your life, Loke."

"You don't think it's hard work, always having to fix everything around here? Keeping the Jotun from walling us all in, getting that stupid hammer from the dwarves, getting rid of that Jotun boy? And do I ever get any thanks? No! Even the humans don't pray to me or sacrifice to me. It's always "Hail Thor!" and "Hail Tyr!" and "Hail fricking Heimdal!" with that bunch…"

"Well, that's hardly something to complain about," Thor grumbles, "it's not like they ever pray to me unless there's something they want. It's all "Thor, make it rain!" or "Thor, make it stop raining!" or "Thor, kill that troll!" with them. And anyway, what do you mean, 'stupid hammer'?"

"Hush, Thor," and in her mind's eye Røskva can easily see the goddess patting her temperamental husband's arm soothingly. "Loke's just upset. But honestly, Loke, at least some of those messes were your own fault to begin with. Like this spring, with you tricking Odin into believing that silly tall tale about the four dwarves…"

"But I wasn't trying to trick him! I was just trying to cheer him up, and next thing you know, I was getting chased halfway across Asgård by Heimdal in a bloody walrus-skin!"

"Well, that's something - being able to trick the all-wise King of the Gods without even trying," Thor chuckles.

"It's not funny, Thor! He's supposed to know me! He's my blood brother, he's known me longer than anybody! He's not supposed to fall for some random silliness like a simple-minded troll and then blame me for it afterwards…"

"Then trick him again!"

Røskva's not quite sure when she stepped into the weaving room, but now she's standing in the middle of it, with three gods looking straight at her.

"What are you doing out of bed?" and "Girlie, tricking Odin's what caused this mess in the first place," but she ignores both Sif and Thor and steps closer to Loke.

"You're the god of being sneaky. Trick him again. Only this time, you do it on purpose, and you make sure that people get to see how much cleverer than him you are."

Loke doesn't answer, but as Sif picks her up and carries her out of the room, muttering about bedtimes, she looks back and sees him watching her, his eyes wide as if she'd slapped him.

* * *

"So - fancy a trip to Midgård?"

Loke is leaning against the fence around the vegetable garden where Røskva's been on her knees the entire morning weeding around the cabbages and potatoes. She's hot and muddy and not at all in the mood for whatever that bared-teeth-grin is promising.

On the other hand, she's hot and muddy and whatever Loke's up to can only be better than what Sif's got planned for her after the midday meal.

"Let me just go get Tjalfe," but before she makes it two steps, there's a hand in her collar and she's dangling with legs uselessly sprinting through air.

"Oh no, you don't. Odin's ravens have been far too curious about that boy since that entire miserable Udgård's business. He won't be coming this time. But -" and she giggles and squirms a bit when she's lifted higher and Loke's beard tickles against the skin at the back of her neck as he sniffs her - "you can go and take a bath first, if you're quick. "

And then he lets go and she lands on her butt in the mud.

"We'll be behind the goat stable until I get tired of waiting," and Loke walks away, leaving her fuming and excited. Which is a pretty familiar feeling whenever Loke's involved, if she's completely honest with herself.

Her hair's still dripping when she turns the corner at full speed and finds Loke leaning against Thor's broad shoulder, whispering something to him.

"Well, it's about time," Loke exclaims and climbs into the goat cart. Thor exchanges a grin with her and catches her on an upwards bounce, lifting her easily into the cart before climbing in himself.

"Where are we going?" she asks, squirming her way in front between the two gods.

"I told you that already. Midgård," and Loke glances at Thor. "Honestly, do you really think this is a good idea? Bringing her? If she can't even remember what she was told less than an hour ago?"

"It was her idea, of course we're bringing her. Besides, she'll be useful."

"I know we're going to Midgård." Røskva barely manages to contain indignation. "I meant where in Midgård? It's a pretty big place, right?"

"Oh. Right - well," but he's interrupted by Thor's roar at the goats and the sudden jerk of the cart getting pulled off the ground has him tumbling into the back of the it, head over heels in a very un-godly manner.

"Well?" she asks, sitting down next to him.

"Well - have you ever heard of the Sheep Islands?"

"They're to the north, right? My mom's uncle lives there. She used to tell us how he went viking and ended up staying at the first stop because he was so sea-sick he couldn't even make himself go back home again."

"Your uncle, you say? Well, perhaps we'll drop by and visit him, then."

* * *

Midgård is cold. The wind is howling shards of ice even in these summer months, and the sea is grey and greedy, licking hungrily at the rocky shores of the Sheep Islands.

They land on the tiniest of the islands, sending the grazing sheep running scared. She halfway expects a sheepdog to come running, barking in fury at them, until she remembers that there are no wolves or bears on the islands, and therefore no need for a dog to guard the sheep. Usually.

"Why are we landing here? I thought we were going to visit Uncle Osvaldr?"

"Oh, we are, we are - we just need to prepare a bit first," and Loke kneels down in front of her. "Now, tell me - is there anything your Uncle Osvaldr thinks he's particularly good at?"

"Well - Mom always used to say he'd bring his harp everywhere."

"Harp? Dammit, Loke, you never said anything about harps! Armwrestling or something, that's a proper contest - whose ever heard about the God of Thunder playing the harp? I'm not Brage, by the Norns!"

"Oh, hush, Thor - let me think. Anyway, Røskva - how about family? Lot's of little cousins of yours running around?"

"Just one. My cousin Leif. Uncle Osvaldr was always sending Mom runesticks about him, about how he'd learned to walk and swim and stuff. He must be," and she frowns, trying to remember how long it's been since she hid in Thor's cart, "maybe ten? Eleven years old?"

"And the apple of his father's eye? Perfect. Absolutely perfect!"

"Loke, I never agreed to anything about a child," Thor rumbles.

"Don't be ridiculous, Thor, it's not like anybody will be getting hurt. Now, they were supposed to meet us here at noon, and it's past noon already. Where are those silly girls?"

Which is the exact moment a great big wave leaps up and splashes him, leaving him dripping and glaring at a pair of giggling females. Jotuns, Røskva supposes, but not like any Jotuns she's ever seen. These are scaly and dressed in woven seaweed and pearls, dancing excitedly and clapping webbed hands tipped with wicked-looking talons.

"Thor, put Mjølner away," Loke says, wringing his hair. "You remember Ægir's daughters, right? You used to give them rides on your goats whenever you'd had a few cups of Ægir's fine ale."

"They used to be smaller," Thor grunts, but he does as Loke asks, watching as the other god steps forward, opening his arms wide in greeting.

"Hello, girls. Now, show Uncle Loke what you brought for him," and they giggle more, the Jotun women, as they start dragging forth fishnets and bits of coral and something that looks like a particularly rickety pair of stilts made out of driftwood.

"You are not dressing me up as a woman again!"

"Honestly, Thor, just because that Aslaug woman wore them doesn't make fishnets women's clothes. Now, girls, we'll be needing a harp, as well. Is that something you can get us?"

"Yes, yes," one of them hisses, nodding eagerly and dancing closer, "we'll borrow Mother's. She won't mind, as long as we bring it back in one piece."

"Good. Now, one of you go fetch that, then, and we'll just…"

"You'll just take Røskva and go to that farm of her uncle's, that's what you'll do," Thor states, pushing Loke and Røskva towards a small boat lying on the rocky beach. "I don't want to risk her being left alone with those girls. They take far too much after their mother for my liking."

"That is gross anti-margyge bigotry," Loke halfheartedly protests, except he's already dragging Røskva by her hand towards the boat, right past the girls. Up close she can see that their eyes are snake-like and their ears are long and floppy and neatly tied like hair bands around their braids.

One of them winks at her as she passes. There's something unsettling about it, but it's not until Loke's pushing the boat into the water that she realizes it's because the eyelids moved sideways instead of up and down.

* * *

Uncle Osvaldr's farm turns out to be a low building made of stone and turf, which frankly looks more like a small hill than a house. A sheep is grazing on the roof.

Uncle Osvaldr himself's a big man and a strong hugger.

"Let me look at you," he exclaims, picking up Røskva and whirling her around as if she was still a tiny girl. "You look just like your mother did at your age. I'd know that nose anywhere. Now, whose this?"

"This is Lo…"

"Lopt Loptsson. Travelling purveyor of socks," and Loke's grabbed her uncle's hand and is pumping it up and down. "I was headed this way on my annual trip to acquire new merchandise and this one's relatives assured me that it would be worth my while to drop by Osvaldr's farm."

"Well, well certainly," and Uncle Osvaldr's is beaming. "We've got lots for you to look at. Right this way, Mr. Loptsson."

"How did you know he'd have socks to sell?" Røskva asks Loke in a whisper as they trail after her uncle.

"This is the Sheep Islands, Røskva. If they're not selling socks, they're selling sweaters."

"Oh."

Later Røskva finds herself sitting with her aunt and cousin (who is twelve - how the years fly), wearing a couple of samples of her uncle's merchandise and chewing on a piece of boiled whalemeat while listening to Loke explaning that he'll be needing to visit several other farms in just a few days' time, no, he can't spend the night, thank you very much for the offer, if he can just leave Røskva there, he'll be by in a week or so to collect her right back to the southern lands.

* * *

For two days nothing much happens.

Røskva makes herself useful. She helps her aunt Thurid in the kitchen, she helps her cousin Leif run out and cover the drying fish whenever the clouds threaten rain and uncover them again when the shower has passed, and in the evenings, her aunt starts teaching her needlebinding, while her uncle plays silly tunes on his harp.

On the third morning, the entire farm is awoken by a roar.

"WHERE IS HE? WHERE IS THE HUMAN WHO DARES TO THINK HIMSELF A PASSABLE HARP PLAYER?"

Everybody stumbles outside, blinking in the sharp early morning sunlight.

A monster is standing in the water. It's tall, which would be comical, except it's really not. It's covered in tangles of seaweed and fishnets, and from somewhere in its red, hairy face huge tusks stick out.

"WHERE IS HE?" it roars and strides closer, making the farm's servant girl squeal and run away to hide in the stables.

"Here I am," her uncle shouts, stepping forward. "What do you want, sea ogre?"

"A CONTEST. I WANT TO KICK YOUR ARSE AT GIRLY HARP PLAYING!" roars the ogre, in a voice that Røskva is pretty sure she's heard before.

"I'm but a humble man, oh sea ogre," her uncle shouts. "How could one such I dare to put myself against a great harpist like yourself?"

"YOU WILL PLAY! IF YOU DON'T, I'LL DROWN YOUR LITTLE FARM! BUT IF YOU BEAT ME, HUMAN, YOU'LL GET THIS!" and it holds out a hand, opening it to reveal a huge, sparkling pearl.

"And if I lose?" her uncle asks, staring at the giant jewel.

"IF YOU LOOSE, I GET TO EAT THE PRETTIEST LAMB ON YOUR FARM! DO WE HAVE A BARGAIN?"

"Yes. Yes we do."

* * *

"I don't know what happened," her uncle moans, inconsolably. "My harp's never sounded like that before."

"There, there, darling," his wife pats his shoulder. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained. And it's only a lamb lost, when all is said and done."

"Yes, yes, of course, you're right," and he climbs to his feet and turns to face the ogre once more.

"YOU LOST, HUMAN. NOW, GIVE ME MY PRICE."

"Of course, great harpist," and her uncle bows, gesturing towards the stables. "We keep the lambs right over here in the house, to keep them wa…"

In one great stride, the ogre has walked past her uncle and is reaching out - for her cousin Leif. The boy manages to duck the grasping fingers and dart into the house, while his mother shrieks in fear.

"That's not a lamb! That's my son!"

"AND IS HE NOT THE FINEST LAMB ON THIS ENTIRE ISLAND?" the ogre roars and stoops, reaching through the door.

"No! Stop! This wasn't the deal!" her uncle shouts, but it's useless.

"GIVE HIM TO ME OR I'LL DROWN EVERYTHING ON THIS ISLAND!" the ogre demands, stomping back towards her uncle.

And her uncle's shoulders slump.

"All right. Just - just give us a day to say goodbye to him."

"VERY WELL! I'LL BE BACK TO EAT HIM TOMORROW!" and with that parting shot, the ogre stomps back into the sea. After a few strides, it dives into the waves. Well, either that or it gets a fishnet tangled in one of its stilts and topples into them, but a great, ferocious sea ogre would never do that, so…

That night, her uncle doesn't play and her aunt doesn't knit and her cousin can't sleep one wink.

"What you need," she tells her uncle, "is help. From someone bigger than that sea monster. Like - like a god."

"You're right," he uncle shouts, leaping to her feet. "I'll ask for help. I'll sacrifice my finest lamb and pray to Odin to come and save my boy."

And so he does.

As the blood of the sacrifice drips fresh and warm from the knife, a sound of galloping horses fill the air, and Røskva dives behind the manure pile just in time to hide as a huge, black horse with far too many legs lands in front of her uncle, rearing and kicking before allowing its rider to dismount.

"Why have you summoned me, mortal?" and Røskva peaks around the manure pile for just a moment. She'd forgotten how very tall Odin is and how imposing he actually looks.

"It's my boy, you see, sir God King," her uncle says. "There's this giant ogre and it wants to eat him. Please, my lord, save my boy."

"Oh, for crying out loud, what sort of an ogre is so terrible, that" but before Odin can finish what he meant to say, a new roar thunders over the island

"I'M HUNGRY!"

like a storm, making dried fish and surprised gulls and Aunt Thurid's washing whirl through the air.

"Right. Well. Ahem," and Odin looks considerably less annoyed and considerably more nervous. "Well, that does sound like a very big sea ogre. Well, I'll just - I'll just hide your boy from it. That's what I'll do. I'll hide him. I'll - come here boy, there's a good lad."

Odin picks up Leif, who's suddenly a lot smaller than he was just a moment ago, and then he walks towards the nearest pasture, carrying the tiny boy in his palm.

Then he gestures and the grass begins to grow, tall and straight and gleaming gold, a field of finest wheat ready for the harvest. And Odin walks into the field and does something to one of those wheatears, and when he straightens, there's no Leif, just an Odin looking somewhat satisfied with himself.

"There. He's hid. Now, when the ogre comes, just tell him the boy wandered off and drowned himself. Let it look all it likes and when it's done and left, you can call for him to come out. Understood?"

"Yes, sir, thank you, my lord Odin," but Odin's already climbing back on Sleipner's broad back while her uncle's bowing and scraping.

And then he's gone.

"Quick," Loke's voice comes from behind the outhouse. "Tell me what he did to hide your cousin? No, wait," and Loke steps forward to actually look at the farm and the golden field of wheat, "I think I already know the answer to that. What a terrible hiding place."

"And you think you could do better?" she asks, upset because really, she wants to yell at Loke. How dare he drag her family into this, scare them like this?

"I can and I will, just watch me. Now, remember, this is very important. Make sure, when this has failed, that they call for me next. No calling for Thor or Njord or any of those. Just me. Just Loke. Understood?"

* * *

The next day starts with a roar.

"WHERE IS HE? WHERE IS MY LAMB? I'M HUUUNGRY!"

Uncle Osvaldr does as Odin told him to, but the ogre laughs.

"YOU'RE LYING TO ME! YOU'RE JUST HIDING THE LAMB SOMEWHERE! BUT THAT'S FINE - I'LL GIVE YOU ONE MORE DAY TO SAY GOODBYE - AND I'LL JUST HAVE THIS LOVELY WHEAT FOR A SNACK UNTIL THEN!"

And the ogre wraps his arms around the entire field and rips the wheat up and opens his mouth wide, so very wide - but her uncle calls "Leif! Leif!" and her cousin leaps free in the very last moment and runs and hides while the ogre is busy chewing the ripe corn.

"TOMORROW!" it roars as it leaves.

* * *

"It's going to be alright, Father," Leif says, patting Uncle Osvaldr's shoulder awkwardly.

"Yes, Uncle, really, it will. We just need help."

"But who can help?" Uncle Osvaldr moans sadly. "Even the very king of the gods is afraid to face that ogre. Who does that leave to help us?"

"Well, maybe Odin just wasn't the right god to call for this sort of thing?" Røskva tries. "It's not like he's always the one having to solve everybody's problems for them, right?"

"I suppose. I suppose tomorrow I'll sacrifice my second-best lamb and call for help again. I'll call - I'll call Thor!"

"No!" and Røskva blinks in surprise, because she hadn't expected her cousin to be the one to very emphatically be saying "No!".

"Not Thor, Father. You saw how even Odin was scared of facing the ogre directly. Surely even the mighty Thor wouldn't dare meet it in battle."

"No, Uncle Osvaldr, not Thor. You need someone with a completely different skill set. Someone sneaky. Someone used to fixing problems."

"I know!" and Osvaldr abruptly stands, accidentally dropping his son and niece in the process. "I'll sacrifice my second-best lamb and pray to Loke to save my boy!"

And so he does.

"Please, oh clever Loke, please save my boy from the ogre that wants to eat him."

"I will save your innocent child," Loke proclaims, standing as tall and imposing as he can manage. "On two conditions."

"Anything, oh great Loke, anything."

"First, when I'm done, you will tell everybody you meet how Loke saved your child while Odin failed. In fact, you'll make a song about it."

"Yes, oh Loke, gladly, of course, yes."

"And second - that boathouse over there," and Loke points at a small boathouse, which during the long winter months must be where Uncle Osvaldr keeps his boat, the one he only ever uses in fair weather to go fishing or just to visit his in-laws on the next island. "You'll spend today making a window in it, and you'll take an iron bar and put it right across in the middle of that window and make sure it's fastened well. Understood?"

Then Loke gestures to Leif, who comes willingly, and together boy and god walk down to the boat and sail out on the waters, where Loke starts - fishing? At least that's what Røskva thinks she's seeing, though it's hard to tell at this distance.

A little while later, Loke rows the boat back to shore, and there is no Leif to be seen.

That day Røskva mostly spends running to and from with a cup of mead and a nice whalesteak sandwich and a bit more mead, whatever Loke asks for as he lounges comfortably against the side of the boat that he's dragged ashore, while Uncle Osvaldr and his servants are busy carving a window and securing the bar across the opening.

"Why haven't you left yet?"

"Because it's not enough, not yet."

"But you hid Leif really well. Surely no ogre would ever be able to find him, and you can tell Odin how you hid him better than he did?"

"It's not enough."

* * *

In Røskva's opinion the crowing of a cock is a far better noise to wake to than the roar of a fearsome sea ogre.

"WHERE'S MY BREAKFAST?" the ogreroars in a voice like thunder.

"I've hidden him," Loke shouts back at it. "I've hidden him and you can't find him, so just go away."

"I WON'T GO AWAY. BUT IF I CAN'T HAVE LAMBCHOPS, I'LL HAVE FISH'N'CHIPS. LITTLE MAN WITH THE FUNNY BEARD, ROW ME OUT ON THE OCEAN!" and the ogre climbs into the boat and looks expectantly at Loke, who obeys while still sputtering about how his beard is absolutely not funny.

As they row out, Røskva turns and climbs up on top of the farmhouse to get a better look, startling the sheep that's peacefully grazing up there, untroubled by the antics of roaring sea ogre and tricky gods.

Far out to the sea, it looks like the ogre has caught a fish, but she can't quite see - and then they're rowing back towards the farm, and as they come closer, she thinks she sees a small form hiding behind Loke, half covered by his cloak - though frankly, she can't imagine that the ogre hasn't spotted him. It's not like the boat is all that big.

When the boat is so close to land that a boy might cover the distance in a single leap, Leif takes his chance and runs for it - but the ogre spots him immediately and rises with a roar to pursue him, stumbling from the boat as Loke kicks at one of its stilt-like legs, letting the boy have a head start, though not much of one.

Leif runs for his life - runs for the boathouse and the window his father worked on all of yesterday, and the ogre almost has him, is breathing down his very neck when he darts through the window, ducking under the iron bar and into the dark boathouse.

The ogre follows.

And gets stuck, then slams the back of its head against the iron bar as it tries to pull back out and roars in fury as its trashing shakes the entire boathouse.

And then Loke's there, a great axe in his hand, and he chops, chops off the ogre's leg, and it howls as splinters and something red that looks just like blood spurts everywhere. Chop, chop the axe goes, and the second leg goes the way of the first, and the ogre stops roaring and moving entirely.

For a moment, it's as if the entire world - or at least the entire island - is holding its breath.

Then Leif reappears, climbing through the upper half of the window and carefully clambering down the ogre's body. Loke helps him down and they walk back to Uncle Osvaldr hand in hand.

"Here's your son, safe and sound," Loke proclaims. "Now remember what you promised me, Osvaldr Sockmaker."

Then he vanishes in a puff of smoke.

Røskva climbs down from the house and joins her relatives, who are busy celebrating their salvation. Osvaldr has sent one of the servants out to fetch the third-best lamb for their supper, and is already hard at work composing a proper song about the entire mess. And everybody's drinking mead and dancing and not doing any of the work that ought to be done.

Which means that Røskva inevitably ends up feeling somewhat guilty and spends half the day milking the goats and the cows and doing a few other things that simply can't be skipped, not even when the entire household is celebrating the divine salvation of the farmer's only son and heir.

When the sun starts sinking, almost everybody else has fallen down drunk, but Røskva's awake to watch as the ogre stirs once more, pulling itself out of the boathouse and complaining to the god in the red cloak that "That iron bar was bloody hard. And did you have to chop so violently with that axe? I think I got splinters in my arse from that. And I'll never get that strawberry jam washed out from between my toes…"

* * *

Two days later Lopt Loptsson returns to fetch his young passenger and his load of socks. This time he spends the night and ends up the first audience of Osvaldr's new composition, "The Ballad of Loke". It's a great success.

"What are you going to do with all the socks?" she asks Loke as they ride homewards, glancing at where Thor is sitting gingerly on the mound of wooly garments.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" he grins at her.

"Well, can I have a pair? I need a present for Tjalfe. He'll be impossible if I got to go on a trip without him and didn't even bring him a souvenir."

* * *

Many years later, a ship carrying the renowned Vølve-Røskva stops at the Sheep Islands on its way further north to take fresh supplies of water aboard, and she takes the opportunity to go visit her kinsman, Leif Lokisgode.

"I'm sorry to hear about your husband," he tells her after they've hugged.

"Yes, most people are."

"And now you're going to Iceland?"

"Yes. My sons are still too young to run a farm themselves and people back home are so backwards about a widow running a farm by herself these days. But I hear Iceland is more oldfashioned, and that there's already women, who have taken land up there."

"So I hear, yes. But tonight, dear cousin, you must stay with me. My wife is already cooking a feast in your honour."

"I'll stay tonight and the day after I'll stay and prophesize for you and your household, but tonight, I'd really just like to sit with family."

And so she does.

They feast and laugh and play old songs - one is played several times, "A composition of my father's - he was always so very proud of it," and there's much merriment. And one by one, people fall asleep, until only Røskva and Leif are left awake, sitting side by side.

"It was all a trick, you know. It was all just a mean trick by a trickster god who never felt sorry about scaring people half to death."

"I know, dear cousin. I've known for years."

"How?"

"When I was hiding inside that wheatear, shaking and scared as I felt the ogre tear up the entire field with me in it, there was a voice muttering, and it kept saying: "Don't be afraid, little boy. Nobody's going to eat you, least of all me. We're just going to help Loke get one over on Odin for once, that's all. So don't be afraid." And so I wasn't."

Leif's imitation of Thor's voice sounds exactly like Røskva remembers it.

* * *

 **A/N 3:** As some of my readers might have noticed, I've based this story heavily on the Faeroese medieval ballad "Loka Táttur", a rare example of Loki being undeniably the hero of a Norse myth story (and coincidentally one of the few bits of Norse myth not already covered by the comics). I've made a few changes, most significantly skipping the middle god of the ballad (who tries to hide the boy in a swan's feather), mostly because the middle god in the ballad is supposed to be Høner, who really didn't fit with when I set the story in the Valhalla chronology, and frankly? I couldn't be bothered trying to come up with an excuse for that cock to be in the story anyway...


End file.
